Aubrey Thomas de Vere (1814–1902)

(Headed by the Author, “A Poet to a Painter”)

THAT which my fault has made me, O paint not:

Paint me as that which I desire to be.

The unaccomplished good that died in thought,

Deep buried in my heart, seek out, set free;

And all I might have been concede to me:

The veil my error and the world have wrought,

Remove: the cloud disperse: erase the blot:

Bid from my brow the temporal darkness flee.

In that celestial and pure fount, whereof

Some drops affused my childhood, bathe me wholly;

And shield me from my own deserts: lest they

Who now but see me by the light of love,

A sterner insight learn from thee one day;

And love pass from them, like some outworn folly.